


Anemone

by ladywongs



Category: Tokyo Ghoul, Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, mutsurie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 20:38:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11654298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladywongs/pseuds/ladywongs
Summary: Whenever Mutsuki steps into the room Urie is able to feel him. He feels the exhausted energy, the repressed rage, the unspoken lies. He can feel the beat of his heart, the soft sighs that escape from his lips now and then, so familiar. The scent of him is different, though. That scent he associates with Mutsuki, a mix of wet leaves and clean cotton, it’s gone; he smells only blood and metal. Mutsurie.





	Anemone

 

**::Anemone::**

**—o—**

 

Are you okay?

Mutsuki’s silence is loud. He walks, breathes, exists, completely oblivious to his surroundings. He can’t listen, he can’t see, he can’t move, but whenever he steps into the room Urie is able to feel him. He feels the exhausted energy, the repressed rage, the unspoken lies. He can feel the beat of his heart, the soft sighs that escape from his lips now and then, so familiar. The scent of him is different, though. That scent he associates with Mutsuki, a mix of wet leaves and clean cotton, it’s gone; he smells only blood and metal.

_Are you okay?_

And as his feet wander around the waiting room, peering down at the city through the windows with bored eyes and hands jammed inside his coat, he discovers Urie’s eyes upon him. They study him, observe him in the way you would look at an old reflection of yourself after years of not daring to stand in front of a mirror. His eyes are haunting, so Mutsuki smiles softly, brows arching with curiosity and pretending he just saw him there, standing behind a desk with tons of papers in his hands.

“Oh, Urie,” he greets.

Urie blinks, nodding.

“H-Hey,” a pause, a silence, his voice asking the same question again. “Are you okay?”

Somehow, Mutsuki realizes that this is the first thing he asks every time they see each other—which is less, and less, and less, and less each time.

Are you okay?

Why, why, why? _Why_ does he keep asking that?

Mutsuki gives an awkward nod, fingers clenching inside the darkness of his pockets.

“I’m fine,” he answers, and the words taste bitter on his tongue. His eyes travel to his desk. “I see you got a lot of work, huh?”

Urie gasps, trying to offer a soft smirk in response while his eyes fall down against the desk

“Y-Yeah, well, I — “

“Mutsuki, are you ready?”

Juuzou’s voice arrives like knives pounding against a chest that bleeds when Mutsuki turns around, nodding at his superior “oh, yes, I’m coming” and his head turns again to give him one last smile, hands weekly waving at his miserable and pathetic direction.

“See you later.”

Urie stares as he leaves, hands groping his sides and drawing frantic patterns against his elbows.

**—o—**

Urie is not much of a coffee person.

He enjoys it, though, when the nights feel too cold and his room way too big. When he stares at his empty canvas and sees only one face, when the music playing in his headphones isn’t loud enough to scare away all the thoughts that scream noisily inside his head. Nothing seems to help, not anymore, so heading to the kitchen in the middle of the night for a cup of coffee has now become some sort of depressive routine.

Darkness rains upon every corner of the house, the faint spark of a lamp near the main entrance being the only light guiding his steps.

The kitchen is a mess, as it has been since Sasaki left, as it has been since everyone inside the house lacked the skills to prepare a proper meal, having to draw upon fast food delivery as the easiest—and less stressful—option. Unfinished pizza boxes poorly sorted in a corner, empty cans of soda wrinkled inside the sink… he wonders what would Sasaki say if he could see _his_ kitchen in such a terrible condition; he probably doesn’t even care anymore.

Urie brews his coffee in silence until the noise of something pounding against the stairs forces him to flick up his gaze, frowning in confusion. He steps forward, his arid lips softly parting to call Saiko’s name, maybe she’d woke up to grab something to eat. But the name that his lips whisper is a completely different one.

“Mutsuki?”

His name pulses in his being.

Urie finds him at the end of the stairs, holding a black plastic bag between his hands, filled with a bunch of stuff he can’t quite identify.

“Oh,” Mutsuki gasps, stopping when he finds him there, standing before him in the kitchen. “Urie. Hi.”

(You… you look tired, Mutsuki.)

He blinks, cold shivers running down his spine.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, looking at the bag he’s carrying down the stairs. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

Mutsuki sighs, giving him a soft grin as he walks down the last three steps. Urie moves to one side, granting him some space.

“I just came to grab a few things I left in my room.”

Urie looks at the way Mutsuki kneels and ties a knot in the bag, hair falling over his face and hiding his eyes from him.

“You won’t stay?”

“I don’t think so, I have a lot of work to do,” he finishes the knot and stands up, grabbing the bag and looking around, then back at him. “What are you doing here alone anyway?”

(I was thinking. I was thinking about nothing and everything, dwelling in the loneliness of the house, every corner filled with memories that I’m trying so hard to erase but they chase me, Mutsuki, they chase me, and it’s eating me alive. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t think, everyone is gone and I’m trying, I’m trying so hard, I’m giving my all, I'm...)

His throat feels dry so he swallows hard, he swallows all the words, burying them very deep inside of him. Urie never tells him the real reason. The real why. He has no answer to give, and the only one he finds it’s just a lie.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admits, and the realization of his answer makes him feel a little bit better about himself. There’s some truth in that, after all. He can’t sleep at all. “So I was… uh, making coffee.”

(And I was about to ask you if you wanted a cup too, but you’re leaving. You won’t stay.)

A glint of amusement coils in Mutsuki’s eyes.

“You and coffee?” he huffs, blurting out a faint giggle. “Well, that’s new.”

And there’s so much that is new, he believes. Like the way his eyes absently stare at the empty spot on the table where he used to sit with everyone else, or the way the words _I can’t stay, sorry_  stab and shatter and burn his body with the heat of a thousand fires, claiming that he has more important things to do—things he hides from everyone, even from _himself._ The headaches, the nightmares, the sudden emptiness, his pale hair, the look in his eyes—sharper than his knives, colder than his smiles. The lies, the unpleasant smell… yeah, everything feels new and different.

(Especially you, Mutsuki.)

It’s painful. So ridiculously painful.

Urie speaks. His lips part just when Mutsuki starts heading way to the door, carrying the bag between his arms. He’s leaving, yet, he speaks.

He asks the same question again.

“Are you o — “

“I better get going, it’s a bit late,” Mutsuki disrupts with a faint sigh, brushing off a question that Urie suspects he already knew it was coming. Urie swallows his words once more and it feels like poison shattering every cell, consuming every portion of his lungs and leaving him breathless. Mutsuki opens the door, turns around, offers him one last smile. “Don’t stay up too late, okay?”

Urie curls his hands into fists as Mutsuki leaves, his joints popping out from the pain when the door shuts right in front of his eyes. And it still surprises him that these are his hands, the hands of a man who looks at his own reflection in the mirror and sees nothing but black, a mouth sealed with both fear and doubt, carrying a burden on his back he never thought it would become _this heavy_ , painfully growing with each passing day.

In the dim of the house, he swallows again.

**—o—**

The third time it happens, it’s at the cemetery.

It’s a lonely place, he believes. Withered flowers sleeping under ancient graves with names that the world has forgotten, dead autumn leaves spread across the damp grass, untouched, no living soul wandering around anymore to pick them up. Not even the dead make themselves heard. And it occurs to him that it’s a good thing, it can be a good thing, for loneliness and death is what he seeks when the world feels too loud, just as his thoughts.

The first nights he came, Urie realized that he was probably the only person who ever stepped a foot inside this foggy place and, somehow, it made sense. Who would want to stand in front of a grave that doesn’t have any corpse inside? But Urie is not like them, not anymore. He doesn’t need a body, or eyes looking back at his pathetic existence when all that stands in front of him is a rugged stone with Shirazu’s name imprinted on it.

And that’s all he needs. For now.

His butt falls down against the grass, not caring about ruining his striped pants with the traces of an old rain still living in the soil. His cramped hands hold a bottle of rum and his lips expulse a gentle mist every time he breathes, the silence engulfing his weary soul into a feeling that soothes his thoughts.

It’s perfect, because he doesn’t need to talk. He’s never been good with words after all, and the place is empty just as Shirazu’s grave. No awkward questions, no complicated explanations, just him, his bottle of rum and the name of an old friend slowly fading away on the stone, being erased by time.

And Mutsuki.

Although he never quite planned that part.

His steps come out as the wind; you can’t really hear it, but it’s there, caressing your hair, kissing the tip of your lips, freezing your dried tears with every blow. Urie peers over his shoulder and Mutsuki notices the astonishment crossing his face at seeing him there, a place he rarely ever visits, but Mutsuki offers no explanation. He comes closer, sits by his side, crosses his legs against his chest.

“What are you doing here?” Mutsuki asks, blurting out a deep sigh.

His bags are huge, just as the sharpness of his jawline. Urie studies him, seeking traces of someone he used to know, finding nothing at all. He’s not there, not even in the slightest. Urie swallows once more.

“It’s a good place to think,” he whispers.

“ _Think_ ,” Mutsuki repeats, words being whispered to himself. He nods slowly, eyes glued on Shirazu’s grave. There’s so much sadness in his eyes tonight, Urie suddenly realizes. He can’t quite capture the coldness, that emptiness that is often wriggling in his gaze like an ugly worm eating out whatever other remaining emotion he’s left inside.

But today is different. He dwells in the sadness, he smells defeat, the air feeling heavy with disappointment. For the very first time in months, he finds emotion in his eyes, _something_ more than just a black void of _nothing._

“Does it help?” Mutsuki wonders after a long pause.

Urie frowns, not quite following.

“What?”

Mutsuki’s quiet for a while. The sturdiness of his shoulders sways, blinking at the cold grave and hands holding each side of his arms, as if not doing so he was prone to fall apart, ready to become ashes. His voice is so much softer when he speaks again. “Thinking,” he utters, lips shuddering as he continues. “Does it help?”

Both know the answer to that.

Urie sighs, putting the bottle aside and taking off his jacket to place it on Mutsuki’s back, who’s only wearing a black sweater that impulses his most overprotective manners, because although Mutsuki no longer visits the Chateau and Urie feels lonely than ever, he still belongs to them, he’s still part of _his_ family, _his_ squad, and it’s his duty to protect him, to keep him safe. Even if he leaves, even if he _dies_ , he will always carry on with that responsibility because Urie is not like Sasaki. He won’t run away, he won’t be a coward.

He will never abandon (him) them.

“Not really,” he simply replies, staring at the way Mutsuki twitches in response, unsure of how is he supposed to feel when the jacket falls against his shoulders.

After exchanging a quick look, Urie comes back to his initial position, bitterness spreading inside his mouth when he speaks. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Mutsuki keeps staring at the jacket, sheltering him with his smell. He swallows, biting his lip.

“I went for a walk and suddenly ended up in here,” he sniffs from the cold, hand rubbing his nose as he speaks. “I guess I didn’t know where else to go.”

(You can come home, you can always come home.)

“I see.”

Mutsuki’s eyes travel to the lonely bottle lying on the floor. He huffs, amused.

“Rum? Where did you get that?”

“O-Oh,” Urie grabs the bottle, suddenly remembering that he had it. “I… actually, uh… I stole it.”

Mutsuki’s brows arch in surprise.

“Stole it? From who?”

“It was on Kuroiwa’s desk,” Urie explains, feeling weird. This doesn’t sound like him, at all.

“So you grabbed it?”

“Kind of, yeah. I guess.”

(I don’t even know why I did that.)

Mutsuki reaches out his hand to grab and open up the bottle, taking a small sip and Urie stares as his expression wrinkles, gasping, reacting to the unfamiliar taste.

He says nothing, and Mutsuki doesn’t return the bottle. They stay silent for a while until, inevitably, one of them decides to speak. And of course, it’s Urie.

“Are you okay?”

Mutsuki laughs ironically, gazing up at the moon. It’s all white. He takes another sip, the weight of his jacket around him feeling heavier than ever. The weight of his words, too.

“Why do you ask me that?”

“What do you mean?”

Mutsuki frowns, eyes falling shut, guarding himself against the world, from Urie, from the truth.

“It’s the first thing you ask when you see me. If I'm okay. Why?”

Why do you care?

Urie holds his breath, pushing back the thought of cursing at him. It used to be so easy, he remembers, cursing at Mutsuki, cursing at everything that caused him annoyance.

_Useless hypocrite._

It used to be easy, so easy. What happened?

_Why do you ask me that?_

(Because you look like shit, because I know you’re not okay and I want to know, I need to know, there’s so much I want to know and you won’t ever—)

“Because I care,” he spits out, desperate to make him see, to make him understand.

Mutsuki’s eyes don’t blink, not even once. The grip of his fingers around the bottle is strong, the pain in his eyes fixed on an empty grave is hollow, and the wall he builds up between them drives Urie insane, more insane than he already is.

“I…” he starts, hands soaking wet. “I need… there’s stuff we need to talk.”

(What happened back in Rue Island? What happened inside that cave? What happened _to you?_ Why you attacked Akira Mado? Why don’t you ever come home? What are you doing? Why do you smell that way? Why do you lie to me? What is that you’re hiding?)

“I need to know wh —“

Mutsuki travels the bottle to his mouth.

“It’s a good rum.”

Words leave him empty. Words aren’t needed.

Urie’s body stiffens, reality splashing at him like cold water: Mutsuki doesn’t want to talk. Even less with him.

A breath slips in between his teeth, shivers running down his spine at the way Mutsuki finishes a conversation that hasn’t even started, that it will never be. Mutsuki sets the bottle back on the floor and stands up, getting rid of the jacket sheltering his shoulders to gently place it over Urie’s back, making sure it covers his whole body. Such act of kindness shatters his entire being; to know that it still exists—a cold glimpse of who he used to be: Mutsuki caring about others, making sure they were comfortable and safe. It was so like him.

So like him.

Urie imitates him, standing up as well, and his heart rises up its speed when Mutsuki turns around, ready to walk away from him without even saying goodbye.

“Mutsuki…”

(D-Don't…)

(Please.)

He stops for a moment, eyes looking down to one side, not daring to face him completely. Facing lies isn’t his thing, after all.

“Thank you for caring about me,” it comes out as a broken whisper, and it’s the last thing he says before walking away from him, his silhouette blending with the shadows that swallow him in.

And there’s no consolation, no light. It’s all silence and the absence of what once was, but it’s not anymore. Just emptiness. Empty eyes, empty hands, empty lungs, empty graves, all his soul pumped empty. All of him.

Empty.

**Author's Note:**

> *sobs quietly*


End file.
